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The praying never stopped at St Barbara’s convent and Mary couldn’t
stand it any more. She had joined the convent in February and now
during an oppressive August night the rhythmic verses were boring
into her mind releasing all she had been suppressing.

Waking Mary wanted to dash her throbbing head on the rough brick
walls of her cell. Staggering into the corridor she groped in the
half-light toward the nearest barred window. Beyond the bars were the
industrial shadows of London’s East End. For all her need to escape
the relentless pressure, Mary couldn’t face what awaited her in the
outside world.

Resting her head on the cool bars eased the pulsating pain. Rubbing
her forehead on the coarse metal distracted her enough for a moment’s
peace. Maybe she was going down with the fever that had been
afflicting the nuns. Each day there was another woman missing. The
thinning numbers had become noticeable, even to someone new like
Mary.

A candle glow appeared at the end of the corridor. Mary flopped to
the ground hoping her white nightgown wouldn’t be seen.

The candle bearer passed.

The novice wondered why she had hidden. Guilt probably, a legacy of
her past life, like the slight trembling of her hands. It made Mary
follow the light.

Three nuns shared the candle. They walked in silence descending from
the dormitory floors through the living spaces and into the cellar. A
Victorian pile St Barbara’s sat on a huge cellar; a vaulted area of
heavy columns divided with brick walls into rooms. The party stopped
near the stairs by some disused cells.

Hiding by a column, Mary could finally see enough to identify the
women.

Sister Rachel, doctor for the convent’s clinic for ‘fallen
women’, pulled a heavy bolt on one of the cells. Sister Beatrice,
the mother superior, was revealed by the light coming from the cell.
She rested her hand on Rebecca; the only person Mary would call a
friend.

An innocent girl of twenty, Rebecca had seen none of the world and
didn’t want to, unlike the thirty-year-old novice. She’d found
her calling early seizing it with a single-minded focus Mary was
jealous of. Rebecca who took it upon herself to help novices. She
and Mary always breakfasted together. Sister Beatrice ushered her
into the cell. The bolt was thrown, padlocked in place and the
remaining women left.

Mary held herself tightly to the shadows allowing the others to pass
before creeping to the cell door. Ear pressed to the door Mary
thought she could make out Rebecca praying, then there was a gasp.

* * *

Mary sat in Sister Beatrice’s office opposite the full authority of
the mother superior. She had been summoned the next morning after
breakfast, which Rebecca had missed.

Sister Beatrice was in her early forties with clean striking
features. There was cunning in her eyes and a thin smile as if she
knew what life could offer and had enjoyed experiencing it all.

“You left this behind,” the mother superior stated holding up
the tip of a broken knife. “Before you deny it, I had your cell
searched during breakfast. This was found.” The remainder of the
knife appeared in her hands. “I would prefer a confession
Victoria.”

When the cutlery broke in the lock on the cell the novice knew she
was caught, but how had Sister Beatrice found out who she was?

“You know who I am?” Victoria alias Mary replied.

“Do you think when a woman goes missing the police don’t contact
us? They know we collect girls who need help.”

“You haven’t told my parents? Not about the baby.”

“Of course I haven’t, but the police know you are safe and they
will have passed the news on to your parents. You can contact them
if you want to or not. Nothing has been said about the abortion. That
is for your conscience. Now, Mary or Victoria, are you going to
confess?”

“I’d prefer Mary, I’m not proud of who I was.”

“Victoria still seems to be present. Was it her who was breaking
into the drugs store?”

“It’s the drugs store?”

“Are you denying your actions? I had so hoped you had freed
yourself from the addiction to intoxicants.”

“I haven’t touched any drugs since I came here. Not even the
communion wine. I’m certain I saw you lock Sister Rebecca in that
cell.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I...”

Victoria was aware the older woman looked straight at her hands which
she held tightly to stop them disobeying her.

“Are you still having the nightmares? I remember the delusions you
suffered when we first found you.” Sister Beatrice asked.

“No I’m not delusional, I saw a light, I followed you and I saw
you lock Rebecca in that cell.”

“I’m not sure she’d fit in the store, it’s full of shelves.
Delirium tremens produces vivid hallucinations. Perhaps you’re not
clear yet. How many nights did I sit with you screaming about demons
and murder?”

Victoria’s hands began shaking for a different reason. The eternal
chanting coming from the chapel was hammering into her skull like
nails. “I’ve never said anything about demons. I’m sure I
didn’t say anything about demons.”

“You are troubled Victoria. You are still not at peace. I forgive
you. Go and pray in the chapel, take time to organise your thoughts
to know what is real and what isn’t.”

Victoria left without a word. Not to the chapel, but to search for
Rebecca.

* * *

Lying on her bed fully clothed Victoria waited for darkness to cover
her escape. She had decided to leave before she too vanished. Evading
Sister Beatrice’s lieutenants as she searched Victoria had failed
to find her friend. Victoria knew she had to be in the cellar. It
remained the only place yet to be examined. Victoria did find more
empty cells than she expected. Each one like Rebecca’s, Spartan and
clean readied for the nun’s return except some had dust thick
enough to grey what it covered.

Victoria decided she would search the cellars and escape by them,
through the coal cellar’s hatch. It was a matter of waiting for the
convent to sleep.

While dusk turned to night, and the river traffic of the world’s
greatest port quietened, Victoria tried to remember every night in
the clinic’s wards. Victoria was sure in all the nightmares, all
the pain, she had said nothing about the night that had left her
lying in an ally. Perhaps she had called her best friend’s name.
Maybe she repeated the pleading in her fever. Never would she have
mentioned demons.

Ceaseless Latin verse cycled through the fabric of the convent.
Voices rebounding in her head, steady and unending grew clearer as
all other sounds faded. An oppressive heat rose with the night, she
sweated and feared until finally she acted.

Along the empty corridors Victoria travelled quietly. All the while
there was an urge to run, dash wildly and keep running until she was
as far from the echoing halls and sounds in her mind.

At the top of the stairs to the cellar Victoria stopped.

Fearful of bringing a light the windowless void below was as black as
blindness. Her hands were shaking again. Memories of another cellar
and a gunshot. Perhaps she could save a friend this time.

Into the cellar Victoria felt for every tread the memory of the
layout turning in her mind as she approached the locked cell like it
was the edge of a cliff.

“Victoria,” Sister Beatrice’s voice softly rang.

An oil lamp was uncovered its dazzling light froze Victoria.

The mother superior and Sister Rachel were blocking the stairs. She
must have walked between them.

“Victoria,” Sister Beatrice began.

“No!” Victoria shouted and a second knife stolen for attacking
the padlock was in her hand. “Get back.”

“Victoria, we want to help.”

“No.”

“Rachel, if you’d be so kind,” Beatrice said.

With practiced skill the doctor lunged catching and twisting
Victoria’s wrist. A thumb in the correct joint and shooting pain
forced Victoria to drop the blade. Rachel continued to twist the arm
forcing it behind Victoria’s back.

Victoria screamed defiance and dived for the floor pulling free
almost dislocating her limb in the process. Scrambling up Victoria
bolted for the coal store door, shouldering it open she stopped.

Lying on pallets hands crossed over their chests were nuns. There
were at least thirty women with spaces ready for a dozen more. A
lighted candle at the head of each made their cold white skin glow.

Sister Rachel grabbed Victoria from behind.

Victoria threw herself backward arms flaying.

Rachel lost her grip.

Victoria snatched up a brass candlestick ignoring the hot wax
spilling on her hand. Rachel recovered and came for Victoria again.
Wheeling Victoria hit Rachel with all her weight. She felt and heard
Rachel’s skull crack. The nun crumpled. On the floor a thin line
of blood, black in the poor light, flowed lazily from her head.

Staring at what she had done for once Victoria’s thoughts were
louder than the praying.

Sister Beatrice arrived.

“Get back,” Victoria warned, preparing for another strike.

Ignoring the blunt instrument wavering above her, Sister Beatrice
bent down to check for pulse and breathing. “Her breath is regular;
the bleeding is not as bad as it looks.” With a handkerchief she
made up a pad for the wound. “She’ll survive, but she’ll be of
no use tonight.”

“I want out of here,” Victoria demanded. It was happening again.
Violence seemed to be part of her soul, bubbling up with tragic
uncontrollability. To survive she had to escape and to do that she
would have to brain another victim. Hands shaking as if eager to
move in a fatal downward arc she gripped the candlestick with two
hands holding it back.

“The sisters here are in coma. They will recover, but will sleep
for several weeks. It is the penalty for donating more blood than is
safe to do so, but the cause is vital.” Sister Beatrice edged
closer, “You have killed. I know of two, but there are more.”

“How..?”

“The praying still hurts you doesn’t it? It burns in your head,
getting worse each day?”

“Change that tonight,” Beatrice urged. “We shelter those who
work against the darkness. One was tracking a new evil to the city.
He was trapped in the open when dawn came. One of my patrols found
him like they found you. For once I offer you a chance to save a
life.”

The mother superior took Victoria’s hand and led her to the locked
cell.

Sister Beatrice unlocked and opened the door.

An oil lamp filled the room with light.

On the bed was a man. His once handsome face had been burned with a
terrible heat, a shadow of his hand held up to shield him from the
fire was clearly visible. Those hands lay outside the bed fingers
charred stubs.

“That poor wretch can,” the Mother Superior said. “He needs it
to survive. Normally he can live on substitutes, but if he is to
recover from these injuries he has to take human blood and the
essence of our souls it contains.”

Victoria felt her world shifting from the reality. She wondered if
this was a trick of her drug-damaged brain. Was she in fact lying in
some gutter her mind spinning stories as life finally ebbed away?

“What are you saying?”

“The truth.” Beatrice paused before sighing. “His Christian
name is Paul. Given to him by St Martin of Tours. Paul has fought
evil ever since, but his own crimes fill centuries. He has no soul
yet works for redemption.”

“What is he?”

“Someone in need of help. In need of your help.”

Paul’s deformed fingers were reaching for Victoria. She stood up
backing away.

“I can’t help anyone I destroy everything I touch.”

“Here is where that can change. No one else is ready. I need you to
help him. You simply have to stay with him and let him feed.”

Sister Beatrice continued. “He will only take what he needs, but
don’t struggle. His animal hunger is close to the surface and
behaving like prey would not be safe. He could kill you or worse.”

“Worse?”

“He is waking will you do it?”

Victoria thought of her disintegrating life and how death was always
in her hands. She sat down. Victoria took Paul’s nearest hand.
Corpse-cold it tightened on her fingers.

“Perhaps I might do good for once. Perhaps this is all a lie and
this is my end. Perhaps for one night I won’t fight.”

Sister Beatrice shut the door and threw the bolt home.

###

About the Author

Roderick is an aerospace engineer whose day job is designing
spacecraft structures. When he loses self-control he writes stories.
In 2008 he won the British Science Fiction Association 50th
Anniversary Short Story Competition. He also illustrates his own
work.

Connect with Roderick Gladwish

Thank you for reading my story. If you liked it you should be able to
find more at Smashwords. My style varies so at least one should
surprise or entertain you. If you want to contact me or simply
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